


another apple to slice into pieces

by niuniujiaojiao



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Biblical References, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, I assure you there is tenderness, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Tenderness, mostly from the pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-31 23:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niuniujiaojiao/pseuds/niuniujiaojiao
Summary: Crowley’s back now, to the first part of the first day of the universe, a moment when the candela, despite its hellish definition, is the only useful SI unit. Time and space are still on their way: the heavens have been created but not yet the earth. Nothing exists now but light and dark and the angels and God; the only thing that can distinguish two points in the universe are their varying luminous intensities. Send a scientist back to the Beginning with an LED meter and let her work out the numbers. Let her hold the instrument up to Aziraphale-to-be and Crowley-before-he-was-Crowley, let the instrument take in the light of their celestial forms. On the first part of the first day, every angel shines the same way. No hierarchy has been established yet, no Fall has occurred. The two of them should look identical, parallel tally marks against the darkness. Let this fragile human tool prove it. Let this scientist quantify their individual brightnesses to the nearest tenth of a candela, look at the digits, and sayclose enough, close enough.-The first week of the rest of their lives. Crowley pines, pays homage to Genesis, and thinks about base SI units.





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardustbunnies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustbunnies/gifts).

> My science knowledge is a bit shaky; let me know if I've made any mistakes.
> 
> Each chapter can essentially be read as a one-shot, but there's also an overarching storyline.
> 
> Thank you to [Lyds](https://boxesfullofthoughts.tumblr.com/) ([cynical_optimist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/pseuds/cynical_optimist)) for beta-ing and being great.
> 
> Title is from Richard Siken's [Scheherazade](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/scheherazade-crush-by-richard-siken/).

They’d agreed on no miracles this week, just for symbolism and safety’s sake,1 so he does this the human way. Tea on the kettle. Frying pans. Buttered toast, sausage, bacon; eggs. It feels right. The first day of this pink-faced Earth—let there be light. Sunlight, egg whites, eggs sunny-side up (even if Crowley knows Aziraphale prefers scrambled). Light from the windows, light being refracted by unwashed wine glasses, light reflecting off tiles and countertops at the same angle it hits the surface in imperfect symmetry.

[1. Getting that table at the Ritz had been a little too spur-of-the-moment, but hopefully, the memo had been lost in all the panic at Head Office. Best to keep their heads low for a little longer.]

Crowley puts on his sunglasses, resists the urge to slither to his bedroom door and peek under. He’s always had the ridiculous notion that Aziraphale glows faintly in his sleep. All that goodness has to go _somewhere_, so why not release it in the form of light, keep a little and let the universe distribute the rest as it sees fit? Crowley imagines Aziraphale snoring away in a mint-condition 19th century nightgown, soft light and warmth emanating from under Crowley’s black silk covers, a book cradled between his arm and his rise-and-fall chest. It’s a ridiculous notion for several reasons, the chief of which is that Aziraphale would never expose a book to potentially dangerous midnight tosses and turns.2 And besides, if he did glow, hiding outside the bedroom would tell Crowley nothing—it’s already morning, there’ll be light beneath the door either way. Crowley has another ridiculous notion—that he’d be able to tell the difference between sunglow and Aziraphale-glow, if such a thing existed—but then, Crowley has had many, many of those.

[2. And the second of which is that Aziraphale hardly ever sleeps.]

For example: physics.

Physics, as a field of study, is generally assumed to be an angelic invention because of the simple fact that there are seven base SI units (the kilogram, the meter, the Kelvin, and so on), a coincidence too great to overlook. From these seven units come infinite possible derived units, with which you can measure practically anything you please, at least in physics and part of chemistry.3

[3. Of course, there are things you might want to measure, like heart rate and happiness, that require something more, but that’s just humanness turning everything to mush.]

Technically, this assumption is correct, as Crowley had kicked off physics before he Fell. He’d thrown out a few arbitrary-but-bendable laws of the universe to spice things up, and then humans ended up filling in the blank spots in manners that frankly terrified him. Pesky equations and abstract concepts that teetered on the border between “common sense” and “complete bullshit.” And keeping track of the units—which, by the way, Crowley did _not_ create—was the worst part.

Take the candela, the base SI unit used to measure luminous intensity. The light from a single candle is about 1 cd, hence, the name. Seems simple, except that the official definition of the candela reads, “[it] is defined by taking the fixed numerical value of the luminous efficacy of monochromatic radiation of frequency 540 × 1012 Hz, K_cd_, to be 683 when expressed in the unit lm W–1, which is equal to cd sr W–1, or…”—you get the point. Crowley had tried to get some points in Hell for that definition alone, but the employee handbook clearly states that evil instigated by pre-Fall actions don’t count. But there’s no need to seek Hell’s approval anymore, or anyone’s, for that matter.

New universe. They can do whatever they want now, and what Aziraphale wanted yesterday was an escape from Hell and lunch at the Ritz and drinks at Crowley’s and deciding, after Crowley’s calculatedly-nonchalant invitation, that he might as well get some rest before heading back to the bookshop, all that business with the holy water had really tuckered him out, and are you sure you’ll be alright on the couch, my dear? Crowley hopes that Aziraphale’s priorities stay the same for a long, long time. They’d seen each other nearly every day for the last eleven years, and Crowley dreads going back to their pre-Arrangement, once-a-century run-ins. But he’ll take what he can get. Like this morning, the light from the windows, nearly enough to blind.

The toaster dings. Then a clicking doorknob, a few stumbling steps, and there is Aziraphale in Crowley’s kitchen, wearing a slightly more rumpled version of yesterday’s clothing. His hair is even more cloudburst than usual, but Aziraphale does not smooth it down. Crowley doesn’t either, but he thinks about it.

They don’t touch often. For the first few centuries of their acquaintance, in fact, there was a mutual suspicion that they would burn at first contact, but a few accidental4 collisions put that theory to rest. Crowley wants to be deliberate, though, to tangle his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair, to brush lint off his shoulder or settle next to him on the couch with their thighs pressed together. He would do it, if he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t push him away. Crowley would do a lot of things if Aziraphale would let him—tuck himself into the crease of Aziraphale’s smile, the shadows under his eyes, the thin webbing between his fingers, all the dark and hidden places of him, just to ask, _Is there room here, just for me?_

[4. On Aziraphale’s part, at least, Crowley assumes.]

“Mornin’,” Crowley mumbles, and turns away to check on the bacon.

“Oh Crowley, you _shouldn’t _have,” Aziraphale replies, voice far too fond for Crowley’s English breakfast attempt, and pulls down two plates and two mugs from a cupboard.

When you look at candle shadows, you can’t see the flame, only the shapes the wick and wax make. The fire has a form of its own, but it lives on a different plane than the surface the shadow is cast on. Crowley can feel fingernails scratching want against his skin, the urge to step closer. _Here I am, cast on wall and floor_, _trying to find where the flame is, but you hide._ _I couldn’t find you in the bookshop and I can’t find you now. I need more, please. Show me the boundaries of you, the places I can rest my back against. Let me see you, if only so I can try to match your light._

By the time Crowley has loaded cookware and glasses and spatula into the dishwasher and wiped the stovetop clean with an old T-shirt, Aziraphale has already begun to tuck in. He makes a few _mm_s that are too emphatic to be completely genuine, but not so much so that Crowley has to despair over the food’s inedibility. In that time Aziraphale has also, apparently, rearranged Crowley’s breakfast into a face—the bread, which serves as the base, is topped with two eggyolk eyes, two bacon brows, and a sausage smile. Crowley fights back an answering grin of his own.

“Angel. _Really_?”

Aziraphale has no qualms about being the third smile in the room. “_Really_, my dear.”

Crowley’s back now, to the first part of the first day of the universe, a moment when the candela, despite its hellish definition, is the only useful SI unit. Time and space are still on their way: the heavens have been created but not yet the earth. Nothing exists now but light and dark and the angels and God; the only thing that can distinguish two points in the universe are their varying luminous intensities. Send a scientist back to the Beginning with an LED meter and let her work out the numbers. Let her hold the instrument up to Aziraphale-to-be and Crowley-before-he-was-Crowley, let the instrument take in the light of their celestial forms. On the first part of the first day, every angel shines the same way. No hierarchy has been established yet, no Fall has occurred. The two of them should look identical, parallel tally marks against the darkness. Let this fragile human tool prove it. Let this scientist quantify their individual brightnesses to the nearest tenth of a candela, look at the digits, and say _close enough, close enough_.

“We stop Armageddon for you to do _this_,” Crowley grumbles at Aziraphale-who-is, then lifts the toast to his mouth slowly, careful not to disturb any of the toppings, and takes a bite.


	2. Tuesday

If Crowley is committing to the Genesis thing, today is a beach day. Aziraphale picks up after two rings.

“Fancy a trip to-?” Crowley starts, but is cut off by Aziraphale’s “Crowley! I’ve been checking everything in the bookshop against my records for _hours_ now but I’m still nowhere near finished cataloging it all and Adam’s added some _charming_ new titles to- you said a trip?”

“Y-”

“I’m sorry, my dear boy, but I simply _can’t_, there’s far too much to do, perhaps another day?”

Silence, then, “Yeah, angel, ’course.”

“Oh Crowley, don’t sound so disappointed. Look, we’ll meet back at St. James’s at four, how about that? I’d like to see how our feathered friends are doing.”

_That’s for Friday_, Crowley thinks, _but no harm in getting a little ahead_, and _thank Someone you haven’t gotten tired of me yet._

Crowley picks up a towel and some sunscreen from the store, then changes into more beach-appropriate gear. “Seaside Rendezvous” plays thirty times back-to-back on the drive there, but Crowley is too glad the Bentley is functioning to snipe at it.

_Meanwhile, I ask you to be my Clementine_

_You say you will if you could but you can’t_

_I love you madly_

_Let my imagination run away with you gladly…_

Okay, maybe Crowley still snipes a little.

Crowley is rather fond of Brighton—the tourists are a sin-provoking nuisance, the music scene is decent, and he’s made it a point to participate in its Trans Pride event every year since it started.

Finding a quiet spot on the beach without the use of miracles is trickier than Crowley would’ve thought, despite the fact that it’s a weekday and summer holidays haven’t started yet, but he manages.

On the second day of the universe, God created the sky to separate the water of the earth from the water above. The molecules that make up the water and atmosphere had manifested already, and with them, the concept of warmth. There was a time when Crowley and Aziraphale’s celestial forms were suspended in a space with temperature 0° Kelvin (absolute zero, humans call it), and then She had created matter, molecules that absorbed light and vibrated and released heat as a side effect. Which means, even as Crowley lies sprawled over his towel and gazes half-lidded at the sky, letting the slow drift of the breeze carry his thoughts in and out, every atom within him buzzes with the exuberance of existence.

Suddenly, lying still doesn’t feel like enough. He scrambles to his feet and heads down to the shore. If he’s here already, might as well dip a toe in. He hisses when the water’s chillier than he expected. Well then. After checking to make sure no one’s looking, Crowley lets his spine elongate, his limbs meld into his body, and his skin transition into black scales. _Shapeshifting_, he tells the disapproving Aziraphale-voice in his head, _does not count as a miracle_.

Contrary to popular belief, all snakes can swim. They do this in an extremely dignified way that does not at all resemble wiggling or flailing one’s tail around, thank you very much. Crowley quite enjoys it, and has a supernaturally enlarged bathtub in his flat for just that purpose. He spends the next hour racing waves back to shore, nosing at interesting-looking stones, and dodging any sandals flung at his head by surprised beachgoers.

Crowley spends another hour or two in human form with a few teens who have obviously ditched class for the day. Even if he’s off Hell’s payroll now, he still has a responsibility to encourage rebellion against any form of authority. After Crowley’s moved past the initial Stranger Danger wariness directed toward him, he gets roped into a game of catch, and then into building sandcastles. The kids are nice enough, a bit disillusioned with their lives, but they smile easily and laugh even easier.

Crowley’s modelling his current sandcastle after the Tower of Babel. His memory of it is fuzzy, but a few millennia will do that to you. Aziraphale’s always been better at the details. If Aziraphale was here, he’d be able to tell Crowley if the windows on the first floor were square or rounded.

If Aziraphale was here… Aziraphale’s not particularly fond of children, but he does loves them, in the same absentminded way he loves everyone and everything. He’d probably give them architecture pointers and lecture them on the importance of a secondary education. Crowley would flick pebbles and bits of sand at him that _almost_ hit his precious suit and Aziraphale would pretend to be unamused. It would be nice, but so is this.

The sun is not the only source of energy on Earth, just the primary one. Geothermal and nuclear energy can operate independently from any star. Crowley’s a big fan of the sun, but if the sun explodes or wants to stay in his bookshop or decides to leave Soho and Crowley permanently, Crowley’s temperature wouldn’t have to drop a single tenth of a Kelvin. He can keep himself warm on uranium and his own pulsing molecules.

The kids scuttle back home once the clouds get grey and their parents start calling. Crowley walks back to the Bentley with his pockets weighed down with smooth stones and shell fragments. They can go in a jar in the bookshop for decoration,1 or they’ll go in the flat if Aziraphale doesn’t want them.

[1. Crowley gives Aziraphale things for the bookshop as often as he can without arousing suspicion. His angel wing mug, a giant chess piece from modern Rome, flowers. And when he sees the mug on Aziraphale’s desk or the chess piece being used as a bookend or the flowers in a vase, he can tell himself that _here _is proof that he means something to Aziraphale.]

By the time Crowley’s returned to London, the grey clouds have become a full-on rainstorm. No point in feeding the ducks, then; the birdseed will be all soggy. Crowley ignores the unease that began gnawing at his bones at the first sight of rain. He can’t help but be reminded of the last time he’d driven the Bentley in a storm in search of a certain angel. But there’s nothing to worry about this time. Aziraphale is sitting primly on the bench—their bench, Crowley likes to think of it—exactly where Crowley expects him to be, holding an umbrella and _beaming_ at him. Aziraphale could keep a London family of four alive the whole winter with that smile. It’s far too warm.

That being said, torrential downpours and Crowley’s cargo shorts aren’t the best combination, so really, Aziraphale’s made the right call.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He takes a seat on the bench, much closer than he normally would, to get under the brim of the umbrella. “How’re the ducks?”

Reaching absolute zero is mathematically impossible, but going _below_ absolute zero is not. Researchers have done it already; they have the graphs and the measurements to prove it. However, these objects are not cold. Particles whose temperatures are negative nanokelvins, are, in fact, hotter than infinity. These particles must also exist under negative pressure, where they attract each other more than they repel each other.

Their thighs are brushing. Crowley doesn’t know what to do.

“Crowley, you’re _shaking_! Here, take my coat.”

“It’ll get wet.”

“Better that than you catching your death of cold, dear.”

Crowley wants to tell Aziraphale there is no such thing as cold; there is only an absence of warmth. There is no “cold energy” the way there is heat energy; you cannot let the Cold in if you leave your door open on a chilly night, you can only let in the Less Hot. But Aziraphale has already draped the garment over his shoulders.

“That’s- that is- Thank you.”

About half of geothermal energy comes from radioactive decay; the rest of it is left over from the formation of the earth. Crowley’s worn Aziraphale’s body before with no trouble, but somehow, it’s this coat, this coat that has held Aziraphale before and now holds him, that makes him flush. It’s still warm. Residual body heat.

“Comfortable?”

Water becomes ice at 273.15°K. Crowley’s nowhere near that temperature, but his tongue feels frozen anyway, incapable of forming the words he wants it to. _Yes, yes, because it’s you. _On the second day, God made a vault to separate the water of the earth from the water above. _There you are, above, and here I am below. I could grow warm and rise, l could surge up to meet you and crush the sky into pieces between us. And then I would cool and go back down. You could follow me, if you wanted to. You won’t, but I’ll keep asking._

Crowley is glad, he realizes, that Aziraphale didn’t come with him to the beach today, if only it means he can be here with him now.

“S’alright.” _Will you leave your door, open, just this once?_

“Glad to hear it, dear.” It sounds a little like _For you,_ _anytime_.


	3. Wednesday

Camden Garden Centre isn’t where Crowley usually gets his houseplants, but it’s a social enterprise and charity, which Aziraphale ought to approve of, and it has a highly-rated cafe, which Aziraphale ought to approve of even more.

“So what’s brought this on, anyway?” Crowley asks as he steps out of the Bentley. “You’ve never gone plant-hunting with me before.”

“Well, you know, your flat looks so nice with all that greenery in it, and the bookshop really is getting to be unbearably dark and cluttered, so I thought a few plants would brighten things up. And I thought your assistance might be helpful since”—Aziraphale wrings his hands—“oh, you know, I’ve really _no _clue what to do. I don’t want to take any plants away from their homes just to slowly… torture them to death.”

“You disguised yourself as a gardener for _six years_—”

“That’s not important!”

Crowley senses a note of genuine distress in the exclamation, so he swallows his intended reply in favor of, “Don’t worry, angel, I’ve got you.” And if a little too much fondness leaks out of his words, Aziraphale’s grateful smile is almost enough for Crowley to forgive himself.

Camden’s indoor selection is extensive. Crowley walks along rows and rows of houseplants—English ivy, fittonia, peace lily, aloe, peperomia, fiddle leaf—carefully appraising each one. Aziraphale follows him, cooing at any plant he finds particularly charming. Crowley heads over to the flowering plants. There are a few jasmine vines in bloom, wafting their sharp perfume into the air. In the case of some vines, a few flowers have already dropped off the stem and into the soil. Without slowing his pace, Crowley brushes the dirt off a freshly-fallen bloom and rolls it around in his fingers as he moves toward the succulents.

Crowley lets the scent of soil sink into his skin. He feels most at ease in places like these—clean air and sunlight, nothing like the mold and damp of Hell. Snake eyes are dichromatic, so Crowley can only see light and dark and green and blue. He had visited Eden on the third day, right after its creation, and been entranced by its vines and shrubs and trees. When he returned to the garden three days later in a new form, slinking his way across the grass, it all looked very much the same—green leaves, blue sky—though he’ll admit, the color of the apples did seem a bit off. It wasn’t until he left the garden that he realized what he was missing. Here, in this room where all he can see is green, he can allow himself to forget again.

Well, green and Aziraphale.

There’s plenty of space between each row of shelves, but Aziraphale remains close to Crowley nonetheless, so close that their hands brush every so often. Each accidental caress sends a tingle through Crowley’s fingers, there and then gone again too soon. Crowley usually isn’t this sensitive, but in a way it makes sense: new universe means every touch feels like the first one.

If he wanted to, Crowley could take each spark, bottle it up, and measure its rate of electric flow in amperes, just to prove it was there. He could make an experiment out of it, take all his wishful thinking and call it a hypothesis. _Touch me again. How long will it take me to learn your skin the way I know my own? How quickly will you pull away? Does this feel anything like lightning?_

But back to the matter at hand—helping Aziraphale pick a plant. Crowley moves around the room, pointing out species that would do well in the bookshop: any plants that grow in low light and don’t require excessive watering. _There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays._ Each word feels uncomfortably like a confession, but he keeps talking despite—or maybe because—of it.

“Devil’s ivy. Grows to eight feet indoors, but only if you want it to.”_ Am I too much for you? Do I take up too much space? Do not let me grow tendrils into your throat. Do not let me suffocate you._

“Monstera deliciosa. Toxic except for the fruit, but you only get those if it’s grown outdoors.”_ I know I’m not a monster to you, but what am I instead? Tell me, but softly. Be exact, be careful with me._

“Arrowhead plant. Might need regular pruning. Sap’ll burn if you touch it.” _Do you know how close you’re standing? Are you doing it on purpose? I don’t trust these words, the ones that bubble up in my throat whenever you’re near. If I let them go, they could pierce your skin._

“That one—with the dark markings on its leaves. At night, the leaves rise, which is where it gets its name.” _There’s prayer plant for you, and there’s heartleaf and moth orchid and cast-iron plant too. All for you._

“What about this one?” Aziraphale asks, looking down at a plant with dark green, cylindrical leaves that taper off into points.

“That’s, ah, that’s snake plant. A form of it. Also really easy to care for, supposed to clear the air of toxins… Looks a bit boring, though.” _I am nothing special. Do you know this? You must know by now. You know, but do you care?_

“Nonsense!” Aziraphale says. He strokes a finger along one of the snake plant’s leaves, slow and careful. Crowley almost shivers. ”Don’t listen to him, you’re _lovely_. You know what you—not just _you_, but this entire garden center—remind me of—there’s this poem that goes—”

Aziraphale screws his eyes up, trying to remember.

And then he says, oh-so-casually,

“_I would like to sleep_

_with you, to enter_

_your sleep as its smooth dark wave_

_slides over my head_

_and walk with you through that lucent_

_wavering forest of bluegreen leaves_

_with its watery sun and three moons_

_towards the cave where you must descend,_

_towards your worst fear._”

_Oh,_ Crowley thinks. _Oh_.

In a circuit, electric current is carried by electrons travelling through a wire. Electrons, lazy buggers that they are, tend to follow the path of least resistance. That’s why short circuits, which offer next-to-no resistance, are so dangerous. All the electrical current rushes through that one shoddy connection, and _boom_. The ampere count goes off the roof. Wires overheat or catch on fire. Batteries explode.

Crowley’s developed plenty of resistance to Aziraphale throughout the millennia, but this still leaves him frayed and smoking.

“It’s called, if I remember properly, ‘Variation on the Word Sleep,’” Aziraphale tells the plant, “by—”

“Margaret Atwood.” It comes out more than a little breathless.

Aziraphale looks up. “I thought you didn’t read?”

_Shite. _“That’s not—I said I don’t read _novels_, angel. Poetry’s alright. Big poetry fan, me. Can’t get enough of it. Here—”

And then, because Crowley clearly isn’t in his right mind, he takes the jasmine flower in his hand, lifts it up, and tucks it behind Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale’s hand comes up to adjust the flower in a way that looks too much like he’s trying to chase Crowley’s touch, and that just really isn’t fair at all, is it?

So Crowley says the only thing he can think of, which is, “It’s- it’s the next part of the poem. You know, the part that goes—

_I would like to give you the silver_

_branch, the small white flower, the one_

_word that will_—you know. That part.” And waits.

On the third day of the universe, there was very little sound. Vegetation is generally incapable of speech, and most of the angels were too busy for socialization. Silence settled into the roofs of mouths, waiting to be broken.

Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath, then looks down at the ground.

“I think—the snake plant and the prayer plant.”

Crowley lets out a shaky breath of his own. “What?”

“In the bookshop. Two plants should be plenty of practice to start with, yes?”

“Y-yeah. Should be.”

“Did you want to pick anything up for yourself?”

“Nah. I’m- I’m alright. Great, even. Just. Tickety-boo.”

Aziraphale bounces on his heels a little, still looking pointedly away from him. The flower is still there. “Well then, if you- if you don’t mind, I noticed this _delightful_ little cafe on the first floor here and I thought, before we bought anything—”

“Lead the way, angel,” Crowley says, and follows him out of the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter incorporates a line from _Hamlet_.
> 
> Since it wasn't stated explicitly here - on the third day, God created land and vegetation.
> 
> The snake plant Aziraphale picks up is cylindrical snake plant, which is different from the usual variation, which has green and yellow leaves.
> 
> I've never been to Camden Garden Centre, but everything I've seen online about it has been really cool.
> 
> Also, in case you're curious, "Variation on the Word Sleep" ends with  
"I would like to be the air  
that inhabits you for a moment  
only. I would like to be that unnoticed  
& that necessary."
> 
> edit 7/11/20: Margaret Atwood, author of the poem above, signed that JKR letter against cancel culture, so this is your reminder that everyone in the fic universe hates TERFs and to don@te to the Homeless Bl@ck Trans Women F-nd.


	4. Thursday

“So how did you know I owned a telescope anyway?” Anathema asks, leaning back farther in the grass. She and Crowley had spent the last hour passing a bottle back and forth as Crowley filled her in on any Apocalypse details Adam had wiped from her memory, so they’re both well on their way to pleasantly tipsy. Anathema had offered Crowley more alcohol, but there was the whole no-miracling-himself-sober-to-drive-home issue. Plus, Crowley starts hissing after a certain number of drinks, and he doesn’t need to humiliate himself _too _much tonight.

Crowley shrugs. “Lucky guess. Figured with all your”—he gestures vaguely—“witchy things, had to have _somethin’_. ‘Sides, can’t see anything in th’ sky in London. Too much- too much light.”

Anathema nods sagely. “It’s all those cars. You know, if the government just invested more in green energy and public transportation—”

“Isn’t that th’ other kind of pollution? Th’ air one.”

“I- yes, that’s true. Though I’m sure the smog doesn’t help star visibility at all either.”

They lapse into silence for a bit. Then—

“So were there any particular stars you wanted to look at tonight? I’ll have to angle the telescope properly.”

“I... hadn’t got that far, no.”

Human civilizations have been looking up at the night sky ever since they could point and say, _look there!_ This is where physics started, not from an apple tree deep-rooted in earth or from a kite in a lightning storm, but from a patchwork of stars that hail from light years away. Crowley wonders if it’s a matter of, well, _matter_. Each star and moon and planet in the universe has an unimaginably large mass compared to a person, and thus, has a far greater gravitational pull. Maybe it is this mass, this force, that has constantly nudged human eyes up toward that tapestry of oft-broken black.

Crowley can’t take any credit for humanity’s study of astronomy, but he’s kept an eye on developments nonetheless. He knows all about the Maya calendars and observatories, the Chinese star catalogs, and the Greek Antikythera mechanism. That being said, Crowley’s last astronomy phase was in the early 17th century, so his memory of the night sky is fairly shoddy.

“Okay, then. Any favorite constellations?”

“Nah. Always thought th’ whole constellation business was a load of bull. They all just look like… weird boxes. Or squiggly lines.”

“Well, that’s why you make up your own. I always just drew whatever I wanted and hoped there was some way to interpret it as a wacky Connect-the-Dots of the sky. Like…” Anathema lifts her hand and does _something _with it. “There. That’s a pentagram. Pretty sure I got a star or two in there.” 

Though it’s not to the same level as stars and moons and planets, people have gravity too. Anathema, who is armed with a steady gaze and a sharp sense of humor, has plenty of it. Crowley finds he quite likes her.

Crowley traces out his own wing, apple, and smiley face constellations, then a sword, just for kicks. Still no stars he wants to get up close and personal with, though. “We could jus’... look at the moon? Big bugger, can’t miss it.”

“Sure, why not.”

Crowley’s right about the moon’s size, though it takes them more than a few attempts to get the lens to focus. Once they do, Anathema has first go at the telescope. She stays there for a few moments, then breathes, “Wow.” Then, stepping back—“Here, you look.”

The image through the telescope looks far more like a plaster cast or a painting than a giant hunk of rock with a mass of seventy sextillion kilograms. Up close, the moon’s smooth face gives way to reveal pockmarks and dark splotches like continents. There’s a few craters that look more like bullet wounds, little white marks with scar tissue spidering outward, and a few bumps that indicate mountain peaks. It seems impossible that any one being, even God, could think all these intricacies up.

“The moon was created on the fourth day, wasn’t it?” Anathema asks.

Crowley sits back down. “Yeah, it was.”

“Did you… have a hand in making it, or anything?”

“Nah. I was on star duty.”

Anathema looks suitably impressed. “Really! Which ones are yours?”

“Which _one_, more like. Only ever got to put one of my assigneds up. ’S one of the Southern Hemisphere ones though, we can’t see it from here.”

“Just one? What happened?”

“Well. Y’know.” Crowley walks his fingers off an imaginary cliff, complete with cartoon parachute sound effect.

“Ah.”

More silence.

“S’ a nice star, though. Was gonna go there if the whole stopping-the-Apocalypse thing went pear-shaped, ’cept Aziraphale didn’t wanna go.”

Anathema looks at him. “Sorry—you’re saying the two of you would’ve just… fucked off somewhere and left the rest of us to burn? You wouldn’t’ve tried to save anyone else?”

Crowley tries and fails to look chastised. “I mean… yeah. If he’d said yes.”

“_Unbelievable_,” Anathema says, but a smile tugs at her lips. “What would the two of you have done, even? Floated around in space and analyzed all the shades of black you saw? _Forever_?”

How does Crowley explain it, the way Aziraphale’s presence is enough to keep him upright? He’s as simple as the North Star, the compass arrow, the one fixed point. Gravity, magnetism, all of it. Crowley can learn other ways to navigate, but he’s thrown his weight behind this one.

“Dunno, really. Prob’ly would’ve slept a lot. Talked even more. Maybe brought some books, though we could miracle up anything we needed. But jus’ floating, the way you said, wouldn’t be too bad either, ’long as he was there.”

Anathema looks at Crowley for a long time. Then, she says, “That sounds—and I cannot stress this enough—absolutely fucking miserable.”

Crowley retracts his statement about liking Anathema.

“The two of you’d just be, what? On a different planet, going around a different star, playing God? Listening to old music, reading old books, watching old movies that you… miracled up, trying to recreate Earth? What would the point be?”

“Tha’s not- that’s not—look. Space is _nice_, alright? ’S not like Earth has a… monogamy”—“You mean _monopoly_.”—“yeah, that—on int’resting things. You’re _fallible_, you lot are. Y’know- y’know how in space, you need to use kilograms to figure out how heavy something is? You lot’re still using a _metal cylinder_ to decide what that is!1 And ’s not even _accurate_! ‘S losing mass _right now_!” Anathema is biting back a laugh, and Crowley no longer remembers what his argument was, but he soldiers on. “So if the whole Earth went boom, so’d the kilo! If we relied on _humans_ and _Earth_ for everything, Aziraphale and me’d be discorporated, w’ no clue on how to measure the mass of anything! So there!”

[1. That definition of the kilogram had actually been discarded two weeks prior, but Crowley had been too busy worrying about the end of the world to keep up with science news.]

Anathema looks far too entertained for Crowley’s comfort. “Fine then. You’d be perfectly happy with no Earth. What about the ‘just you and him’ thing? That sounds miserable, too.”

“Not r’lly.” Crowley shrugs. “No one else I’d rather be facing eternity with.”

“Yeah, but that’s only if you _had_ to do it, and only if you couldn’t pick more than one person, right? Don’t you have any other friends?”

“Well…” Crowley plucks at a few blades of grass. “Used to. But they all died, eventually. Doesn’t seem worth the effort anymore.” When Anathema doesn’t say anything, he adds quickly, “And that’s rich, comin’ from you. Where’s that doughy-looking kid you were with at the airbase?”

His attempt to change the subject works. “Newt?” Anathema winces. “I… broke up with him. Turns out that ‘we have nothing in common, but my ancestor predicted that we would fuck and then told us we would get married using phrasing that ignores my Ph.D.’ isn’t a very solid basis for a relationship.”

Crowley mirrors the wince. “Doesn’t sound like it, no.”

“Also…” she looks away. “I’m pretty sure I’m not attracted to guys. Not like that, at least.”

“Women, then?”

“Not sure yet.”

“So why’re you still staying in Tadfield then? Antichrist business is over, and ‘s not really the best place to meet someone.”

“I don’t know if I _am_ staying for much longer. But”—Anathema sighs—“there’s really nothing waiting for me in America. My family’s made enough off the stock market to last us centuries. Jasmine Cottage is nice enough, though I have no idea what to do here either. Maybe some form of… I don’t know… climate change activism?” Crowley hums. “But listen—_you_ haven’t been tied to a book all your life; what do _you _do all day?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh. “I promise you, I’ve got nothin’ helpful for you. My job, when I had one. Sleep. Watering plants, organizing my music collection… ‘S mostly Netflix and feeding ducks, nowadays. And spendin’ time with Aziraphale, ’course.”

“What’s with the two of you anyway?”

Crowley takes a measured breath. “Wh- what do you mean what’s _with_ us?”

“What I mean is that you’re obviously pining. What’s it been, like… a thousand years?”

“I really dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to _tell_ him.”

If Anathema ever brings this up again, Crowley’s going to fake alcohol-induced amnesia. “... Six. Six thousand.”

“Six _thousand_? And I thought _I_ had issues! Christ on a _bike_, haven’t you said anything?”

“He- he’s an angel! He can _literally_ sense love! Ball’s in his court now. Has been, for a _while_.”

“And you’re _sure_ he knows?”

Crowley is considering burying himself in the dirt outside Jasmine Cottage and never getting out. “You said it yourself. ’m obvious. ‘Sides, angels… they love _everything_, but exactly the same way. ‘S never gonna happen.”

“I am… almost _certain _your logic is flawed.”

“‘S not. And s’alright, really. I’ll take what I can get.”

“I mean… if you say so? _God_, though,” Anathema sighs. “We _really_ need to get some hobbies. And some friends.” Before Crowley can protest—“Look, sixth day of creation is creatures of the land, right, which includes people? You and Aziraphale should come over on Saturday, I’ll host like a… Armageddon’t one-week anniversary party. _Fuck_, I’m gonna have to invite Newt, aren’t I?”

Crowley is silent, which Anathema seems to take as assent.

“_Great_. And speaking of hobbies, I have some old arts and crafts books lying around… want any? You can create new things without miracles, you know. And without being a dick.” She gives him a hard nudge. “What do you say?”

Crowley stands up, brushing dirt off his trousers and wishing he had a lot more alcohol in his system. “Let’s jus’- let’s just look at the moon some more, alright?”

Crowley drives back to Mayfield with the backseat weighed down by several how-to guides on jewelry-making, origami, and crochet, but he feels just a little lighter.


	5. Friday

Crowley really had intended to go to St. James’s today, up until the rain had started. No point in sacrificing comfort for duty, he’d decided, set his sunglasses aside, and curled up even tighter on the bookshop sofa. Making creatures of the sea and air out of paper should count too.

The first set of instructions in Anathema’s origami book was for a crane—a creature of both the sea and air. Crowley had taken it for a positive sign. In the following several hours, he had taken more than half of the book’s complementary pack of origami paper and transformed it into a little army of sharp-beaked critters of identical shapes but varying colors, all lined up on the table in front of him. And then Aziraphale had come into the backroom as well, sipping cocoa from his angel wing mug, and seen them.

All of which led to this present moment, where Crowley’s mouth is saying, entirely of its own accord, “I could show you how to make one. If you like.”

There are two types of forces in physics: contact and non-contact. These forces are exactly what you think they are. Contact forces—like tension and friction—occur between two objects that are in contact with each other, while non-contact forces—like gravity or magnetic attraction—occur between two objects that are not. Thus, as much as it feels like Aziraphale has reached directly into Crowley’s chest and yanked the offer out of him, in reality, him telling Crowley, “Oh, those look so lovely; you know, I never got the hang of origami myself” and making all manner of _eyes _at him will have to go in the second category.

Aziraphale takes a small eternity to sort through the origami paper for a suitable pattern (tartan, obviously), then nudges Crowley’s legs over so he can sit on the sofa, back straight and eyes bright, ever the diligent student.

“No need to look so eager, angel.” Crowley tamps down the urge to put his legs back up, in Aziraphale’s lap, and grabs his own paper square. “Here—you need to turn the paper _this_ way for the colored side to show. Now just follow what I do.”

Crowley had found the last few hours to be surprisingly relaxing, once he got the hang of things. It really is a rather basic design, just simple folds and turning the paper over, but Aziraphale struggles nonetheless.

“Can you show me that one again?” he asks after almost every step, and Crowley obliges him.

It’s strange, Crowley thinks, that someone with Aziraphale’s steadiness of hand and delicacy of touch, someone who has no trouble restoring decrepit old books that fall apart if you look at them wrong, can be so bad with origami paper. In another way, though, Crowley is grateful for Aziraphale’s lack of skill. It gives him the opportunity to reach over for Aziraphale’s crane-in-progress, his hand grazing warm skin, and say “no, like _this_.”

Any particularly pedantic scientist might object to the term “contact force.” Why? Well, first of all, of the space inside an atom, a very small percentage of it is matter. If the nucleus was the size of a speck of dust, the empty parts of the atom would fill up St. Peter’s Basilica. When two atoms “touch,” their protons, electrons, and neutrons don’t relinquish any of their personal space. Instead, the “touching” can be likened to two force fields pressing against each other. Thus, since the matter of two objects can never truly make contact with each other, “contact forces” cannot truly exist.

Crowley, whose itching need for _closer_ is nowhere near alleviated by the way his and Aziraphale’s sleeves are brushing right now, would be inclined to agree.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, dropping his voice down to a conspiratorial whisper, “there’s a Japanese legend that says anyone who folds a thousand paper cranes will have a wish granted from the gods.”

“What, talking about polytheism now? You’re lucky if Gabriel doesn’t smite you right now for that one.”

“Oh, hush now, you. How many have you got so far?”

Crowley gives the table a once-over. “Maybe... sixty?”

“Well then,” Aziraphale sighs. “No wish-granting tonight, then.”

One thousand, when looked at in the context of the atom, is a perfectly reasonable number. After all, about five _trillion _hydrogen atoms can fit on the head of a pin, and that’s just the beginning of it. Working with the atom requires working with unwieldy digits. That’s where the mol, the SI unit for substance, comes into handy.

One mol is defined as exactly 6.02214076 × 1023 particles—where “particles” usually refers to atoms, molecules, ions, or electrons. Clearly, it’s not a perfect unit for every context. One would, for example, hardly ever need to refer to 1 mol of paper cranes. And if you’re looking for consistency in mass and volume, look elsewhere. 1 mol of water can only fill 8 thimbles, while 1 mol of gold can be molded into 80 wedding rings. However, if you just want a handy-dandy word to represent a really big number, the mol is the way to go.

So when Aziraphale bites his lip in concentration, Crowley can think, _Your mouth holds 1/200th of a mol of the molecules making up the earth’s atmosphere right now, the same as mine does._ When Crowley’s hand brushes Aziraphale’s yet again—_The sweep of area where our skin touches could, I think, fit half a mol of carbon in it. It would leave a mark, if it was there. A graphite smudge on both our wrists._ And when Aziraphale sets his first completed crane on the tabletop with a proud “there!”, Crowley wants to tell him, _If I gave you 1 mol of “I love you”s, I’d be nattering on for years, long enough for the sun to be created and collapse four million times over again, and we’d both be _beyond _sick of hearing it, but I would mean it, every single time._

Instead, he says something just as damning.

“What would you wish for? If we ever decide to finish the cranes, that is.”

Aziraphale responds without a moment’s hesitation. “For you to never have to go back to Hell again. Obviously.”

The 1/13th of a mol of air molecules usually contained in Crowley’s lungs seems to disappear in a whoosh.

He doesn’t know what he thought Aziraphale would say—something about food or books or the earth or maybe existence as a whole, maybe, but not something just for Crowley. Never something just for Crowley.

“What?” he croaks out. “Why?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Well, it was _awful _down there, dear boy! All smelly… and crowded, and… _moist_. I don’t know how anyone stands it. And you _know_ I’ve always been so worried about you and holy water. You don’t belong there, Crowley, and I won’t have you in such danger again.”

_Oh_, Crowley thinks, for the second time this week, _Oh._

Still, he presses on.

“Then, why… what about Alpha Centauri?”

“Well, I had a plan to save the world, dear, I was hardly going to leave it all behind without putting up a good fight. But if Armageddon really had succeeded… of _course _I would have left with you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide and sincere, and Crowley is _such_ an idiot.

For millennia, he’s been soaked in the brine of aching for _moremoremore_, secretly thinking himself oh-so-noble for scrounging around in the grass for breadcrumbs, for saying the word “enough,” for _settling_, all while ignoring the banquet right in front of him.

For millennia, he has chalked all their lunches and walks in the park and smiles and saving each other’s _lives_ down to Aziraphale being just a little fond of him and having no other options, all the while assuming that Aziraphale doesn’t have the same capacity to care as Crowley does. Not once has he rethought his prejudices, not once has he examined Aziraphale’s actions with a scientific eye.

Aziraphale cares for Crowley, of course he does, cares for him in a way that’s not just angelic, cares for him with _substance_. It might not be the same way Crowley feels for him, but why does that matter, as long as it's Aziraphale’s and it’s _real_?

And Crowley, complete and utter _bastard_, Crowley’s had the _nerve _to be miserable about it.

Something has to change. He’s going to be grateful for what he has, and not just because it’s all he has. He’ll be honest with Aziraphale. He’ll finally get a bloody therapist. He’ll—

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

“What would your one wish be?”

Well. There’s a difference between making a resolution (something Crowley has done) and actually carrying it through (something Crowley intends to do). This difference lies mostly between how hard the two actions are.

There are plenty of things Crowley could say: infinite wishes, more disciplined plants, his CDs to stop turning into _Best of Queen_, Heaven and Hell to chill the fuck out for a few millennia. And there’s also the truth.

When you say something difficult, it’s not getting the words out that’s the challenge. The real difficulty is taking the breath before the sentence, knowing what you’re going to say.

Aziraphale is looking away from Crowley, fiddling with his fingers, but it’s a calculated nonchalance. Crowley recognizes it all too well. Aziraphale cares, desperately, about what he’ll say.

Crowley takes the breath.

“I’d wish for you to not Fall.”

Something in Aziraphale’s features softens imperceptibly as he turns to him. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

“You can’t fall, Aziraphale, not ever. You think Hell doesn’t suit _me_? ’Least I’m used to the place. You belong _here_, with your bookshop, and your fine dining, and your 18th-century waistcoats, and all your… _goodness_. ‘Sides, I know what it’s like to have God’s love ripped out from under you. It’s- you don’t deserve that. If there’s anyone who deserves God’s love, it’s you, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are growing misty, and Crowley is so grateful he is the one to see this. Aziraphale is giving him a gift. Every moment with Aziraphale is a gift.

“My dear, you must know that you deserve Her love too, just as much as I do.”

Crowley wants to look away. He doesn’t, but his voice grows soft. “Don’t… don’t say things like that, angel.”

“No, listen, Crowley—I know that I could go on for days and days about you saving the world or all the other good deeds that you’ve done and you’d never be convinced, but hear me out—you say I deserve all of God’s love, yes? Then—oh, don’t you see, it’s like what that Walt Whitman said. ‘_For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you._’ This bookshop—A.Z. Fell & _Co_.—you’re the Co. Basil and Henry”—he points to the plants in the corner of the room—“they’re mine, but they’re yours, too. Of _course_ you have God’s love, Crowley; how could you not? It’s yours, because it’s mine to give. And I’m giving it to you.”

Crowley surges forward. Wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, buries his face in his neck. Aziraphale’s arms come up immediately to hold him. Someone is trembling, Crowley thinks, one or both of them, or why else would Aziraphale need to hold onto him so tightly? Aziraphale, who is pulling back to look at Crowley again, one hand cupped against his cheek, and then leaning forward again to press their foreheads together.

“_Angel_,” Crowley breathes.

“I’m here. I’m here, Crowley.”

“Is this okay?”

“Unbearably so.”

“And is this- is _this _okay?” Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s right eyelid, then his left. “What about this?”—dragging his lips clumsily down Aziraphale’s cheekbone. “And this?”—pressing his lips to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“_Yes_.”

Crowley chokes back a sob. “I love you. You know that, yeah?”

Aziraphale’s words are warm and careful against Crowley’s cheek, and how did Crowley get so lucky? “I know, darling. I’ve always known. Forgive me for not always knowing what a gift it was.”

So Crowley closes the pinhead’s worth of space between them and kisses him properly.

-

Crowley returns to his flat hours later, fingers sore from paper-folding and cheeks sore from smiling. As he shuffles off his jacket, he feels something rustle.

Inside the left pocket is an origami configuration Crowley remembers seeing instructions for on the second page of the book. Aziraphale must’ve slipped it into his jacket when Crowley popped out to buy them dinner. Two paper cranes, one black, one white, folded out of the same sheet of paper, connected at the wing.

Crowley sets the cranes down carefully on his kitchen counter and thinks about flight and wishes coming true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If we go off of the scientifically calculated age of the sun, it would actually burn out _eight_ million times over again after 1 mol of "I love you"s (assuming each "I love you" takes one second to say), but I'm going off of the idea that the sun was only created 6000 years ago and has half the lifespan human scientists think it does.
> 
> Renzuru is the art of folding multiple paper cranes out of one sheet of paper. The piece Aziraphale gifted Crowley would look something like [this](https://farm5.static.flickr.com/4009/4702264663_466e62866b.jpg).


	6. Saturday

Crowley’s watch reads 1:21 AM.

He’s been researching therapists in the London area for the last two hours, sifting through his options. No Freudians, that’s for sure, and he remains wary of cognitive-behaviorists. There’s also the issue of finding someone who will believe him about the whole demon thing. His search is also impeded by a sick feeling in his stomach that is part joy, part something else entirely.

His watch ticks again. That, exactly, is the problem.

Crowley has spent 6000 years wanting one thing and waiting for the End to come, and now that he has the one thing and the End has been thwarted, he isn’t sure what to do with the time he has left.

He already has 6000 years’ worth of memories, and it’ll all keep adding up. Sure, he’ll discard some and warp others, but still. Every single decision he makes is one he will have to face eternity remembering. If he gets discorporated through some freak accident and Management refuses to give him a new body, he’ll spend eternity in Hell. If Apocalypse 2: Electric Boogaloo comes and Earth loses, he’ll spend eternity in a Hell-made hell or a Heaven-made hell. If humanity ends the world on its own with nuclear war or global warming, he and Aziraphale will be alone on Alpha Centauri, doing everything Anathema predicted and growing wearier and wearier at the nothingness of space. And if anything happens to Aziraphale… Crowley doesn’t want to think about it.

Even worse than the idea of facing eternity, though, is the idea of not having it at all. Holy water still exists. It’d only take a drop…. How do humans do it, go through living every day, wasting hours on Solitaire and commutes and waiting rooms, knowing it’s all going to be taken away from them eventually?

Crowley looks at his wine cellar for a long time. Then he pulls out his mobile and dials.

“A.Z. Fell speaking. I’ll have you know we are _closed_—”

“Angel, it’s me.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice warms so much Crowley fears the phone melting in his hand. “We’re going to Anathema’s at nine o’clock; shouldn’t you be asleep now, darling?”

_Darling_. Crowley has plenty of time to get used to that one. Or maybe he doesn’t.

“I know, angel. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Oh, _Crowley_,” Aziraphale says, and see there, that’s something else Crowley’s in danger of losing.

“And I had a question.”

“Oh?”

“How- how do you do it? How do you believe in the Ineffable Plan so completely? How can you think about hellfire or eternity without wanting to drink yourself stupid or sleep through a century?”

There is silence on the other end for a while. Then—“The faith is just part of my wiring, I suppose. I need to believe She does everything for a reason, because I want to believe the universe is kind, and because of all the good things that have already happened. I met you, and the world didn’t end. And weren’t you the one who suggested all this could have been planned by the Almighty all along?”

“It’s… complicated. And that was mostly speculation.”

Aziraphale hums. “As for the second part of your question, darling… I’m afraid, too, of course I am. Why do you think I was so adamant against giving you that holy water? But if we have eternity, then shouldn’t we have time, too, to figure it all out? And to fix anything that’s broken? If, Almighty forbid, any kind of harm comes to one of us, then the other one of us has infinite time left to invent time travel, or petition Her to change things, or to accustom himself to living without the other.”

“And if we’re both gone?”

“Then I believe there’s not much to worry about anymore, is there?”

Aziraphale makes it sound far too simple, but Crowley can’t think of any strong counterarguments. And he is getting rather sleepy.

“Did that help at all, Crowley?”

“A little. Thanks.” And then, because he’ll do it for as long as he can—“‘Night, angel. Love you.”

“I love you too.”

In the morning, Crowley arrives at the bookshop 15 minutes early. He and Aziraphale greet each other, a touch shyly, and then Crowley decides to make everything a little easier for both of them by turning into a snake.

Crowley’s always enjoyed being a serpent around Aziraphale. The angel is _warm_, and the careful distance he maintains between the two of them usually disappears whenever Crowley grows scales. Aziraphale is willing to impart on him all manner of strokes and pats, and seems perfectly comfortable with Crowley sprawling all over him. Today, though, Crowley doesn’t need to shapeshift in order to stave off touch starvation. Aziraphale had seemed perfectly content to have—Crowley doesn’t want to call it a _cuddle_, but that is likely the most accurate noun—on the couch last night. Crowley’s current choice of form is just a tribute to Day Six and all the “creatures that move along the ground” business that comes with it. And a way to keep his face less expressive. And he can telepathically implant his words in his intended listeners’ ears, which is always fun.

“Darling, as much as I enjoy your company, you really ought to come down now.”

Crowley, who feels perfectly comfortable draped around Aziraphale’s plush shoulders, feels no need to obey.

“Come now, you can’t expect _me _to drive us there, can you? And I can hardly take you onto public transportation when you’re like this.”

_Wouldn’t be the ssstrangest thing people’ve ssseen on the Tube._

“Still though, it’d be awfully frightening for the other passengers.”

_Anathema’ll have our heads if we drive. Always going on about global warming, she is. _“And very right to do so.” _But I ssssee your point. _He concentrates until he’s shrunk into a much smaller version of a red-bellied black snake, just the right size to fit in the empty one of Aziraphale’s coat pockets. _There. We can take the busss now._

They arrive at Anathema’s half an hour late (punctuality requires more foresight when you can’t just convince the bus driver to take you exactly where to go), with Crowley returned to his previous size and position on Aziraphale’s shoulders. The party seems to be going well enough without them—or at least, as well as a social event can go if about half the attendees have, on one instance or another, attempted to kill or maim members of the other half, and if the host and an attendee have gone through a rather abrupt breakup.

There’s a clock on Anathema’s mantel. Crowley tries to ignore it, which is fairly easy, as his appearance causes quite a stir. There are a few exclamations of fright, one accusation of witchcraft, one demand to see Aziraphale’s snake-keeping license, and two “_wicked_”s said with such similar timing and timbres that it unsettles the speakers far more than Crowley ever could.1

[1. The originators of these sounds are, 1) Newt, Madame Tracy, Brian, Anathema, and Dog; 2) Shadwell; 3) Wensleydale; and 4) Adam and Pepper.]

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, “I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you in advance, but Crowley is perfectly harmless. Well, he _is_ venomous, but he’ll behave himself; won’t you, dear?”

_Could sssstill bite your heads off_, Crowley warns the room, which garners a similar set of responses as his entrance did, with some additional “did you hear that too?” and “how did you _do_ that?”s thrown in the mix.

Anathema recovers first. “So when Crowley told me ‘serpent of Eden,’ he really meant—”

“He did,” Aziraphale says, “but as I said, don’t worry,” then presses a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head.

Anathema’s eyes widen at the gesture, then turn to give Crowley a very meaningful glance. _You and I are going to have Words about this_, she seems to be saying.

Crowley sighs internally. _I’ll texssst you_, he tells her. To her credit, she barely reacts.

Then Aziraphale and Shadwell get into a very spirited debate on whether or not Crowley having a snake form counts as witchcraft, Anathema and Madame Tracy go back to discussing their various lines of work, Newt pours himself another drink, and Crowley slinks off to play tag with the Them.

Time passes. Inside, the shapeshifting-witchcraft debate expands to encompass the entire group. Madame Tracy looks amused, Anathema frustrated, Newt terrified, and Shadwell dismissive. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is holding up the dictionary2 he always keeps on his person and jabbing his finger at an entry. If snakes could laugh, Crowley would.

[2. A gift from Crowley on the 5994th anniversary of when they met, though he hadn’t told Aziraphale that was why. The entire contents of the _Oxford English Dictionary_, second edition, gathered up in a compact book that could fit inside Aziraphale’s coat pocket, and demonically miracled so that it always opened to the page you wanted and had words large enough to read without a magnifying glass.]

The _Oxford English Dictionary_ defines one second as “a sixtieth of a minute of time, which as the SI unit of time is defined in terms of the natural periodicity of the radiation of a caesium-133 atom.” Crowley glances at Aziraphale through the window for 0.94 seconds. Then again, for 5.77 seconds. And again—8 seconds exactly.

The phone call with Aziraphale had helped, in a way, but the dread is still there.

Tag turns into making daisy chains turns into something that requires Crowley to thwack his tail up and down while the Them jump around and over him.3 The conversation inside turns far more subdued, at least until Aziraphale learns that Anathema burned the second volume of prophecies and sits twitching with indignant fury at Newt for half an hour. The passage of time doesn’t seem to faze the humans at all. Maybe they really do know something Crowley doesn’t. The earth and all its living creatures were created to be ruled by them, after all.

[3. Crowley tells himself he only agreed to the game because it doesn’t do to have the Antichrist upset with you.]

“Time for lunch!” Anathema calls, and the four children scurry indoors, Dog at their heels. 

Crowley can’t eat anything on the table in his current form, so he curls up in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel helps himself to sandwiches and iced tea.

Red-bellied black snakes have a predicted lifespan of 25 years, or 788923149 seconds. Red-crowned cranes have been known to live up to 75 years, while red-blooded humans, fragile as they are, average to 79.

Crowley probably has 79 years and then some, all the time before the next Great War, and maybe time after that as well. But this eternity is made up of finite pieces, and every second must pass before the next begins. _This_ earth, the earth of this moment, is fleeting. Crowley’s seen it all go before like so much smoke. Acquaintances die, empires fall; disco gets systematically demolished. It’s happening here, too. The potato salad that no one seems to be touching is slowly but surely on its way to going bad. Adam and his friends are growing older this very moment, and will keep doing so until one day they start leaving their napkins be instead of methodically tearing them into little strips. Aziraphale’s coat will decompose, and Jasmine Cottage will be bulldozed to make a bypass, and Crowley will shed his skin over and over again.

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “What are you thinking about?”

_Nothing much._

“Time, again?”

_Maybe._

“And how do you feel?”

Crowley considers lying, but he’d made himself a promise yesterday afternoon. _About the ssssame as before._

“Oh dear.”

Reassuring Aziraphale, at least, is familiar ground. _It’sss alright._

“I truly wish I could help more, but in a way, I’m just as lost as you are.”

_You don’t have to fixssss it, angel._

“But I want to.”

_It’ll passssss._

“Well, is there anything I can do?”

_Nothing much. Jussst be here, for now._

“That, I am perfectly happy to do.”

The rest of lunch passes without much interruption. There’s discussion about the latest issue of _New Aquarian_, school, treehouse-building, and retirement. The clock continues to tick, but the sound seems a little quieter.

At the end of the meal, Anathema clears her throat and raises her close-to-empty glass.

“A toast!” she announces. “To, well… to the world not ending!” The others echo her. “And to having more time. If I’ve learned anything from the past nineteen years of my life, it’s that living in the future is… kind of the worst. We’re together now, I guess, and mostly unscathed, and in this moment—the only moment that should mean anything right now—that’s what matters.”

It’s another of those too-simple solutions, and Crowley can see Anathema is uncertain about her words as well. There’s something so human to making grand declarations that you don’t completely believe in. But that humanness also what makes Crowley trust her, at least right now.

_Cheersss._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's thoughts on therapy methods are not necessarily my own, though I feel like cognitive-behavioral techniques might not work as well on a non-human brains.
> 
> Also, the facts that 1) the full online Oxford English Dictionary is not open to the public (you need a school account?) and that 2) the third edition will not be released in physical book form keep Aziraphale up at night.


	7. Sunday

Crowley wakes up with a heavy arm slung around his middle and an angel drooling on his shoulder. It's something close to paradise.

Aziraphale does not glow in his sleep, Crowley has learned. He does snore, and take a very long time to get comfortable, and have an affinity for bullying his way into the dead center of his dreadfully lumpy mattress. Crowley thinks he prefers this version of reality; after all, if Aziraphale did glow, Crowley would never be able to fall asleep without sunglasses.

_Years and years of narrow misses, and now we’re here_. It shouldn’t be possible. It wouldn’t be, if Zeno of Eleas had anything to say about it.

Perhaps Crowley had encouraged Zeno a little too much, back in the day. His paradoxes were an easy way to inspire wrath at any Greek party in the 4th century BC; Crowley had assumed they were mostly harmless. If only they didn’t haunt him to no end.

In the Achilles and the tortoise paradox, the titular figures are placed along a straight line, with the tortoise at point B, some ways in front of Achilles, who is at point A. The two start moving at constant speeds, with Achilles as the faster runner. But by the time Achilles reaches point B, the tortoise will have moved forward to a point C in front of him. When Achilles reaches point C, the tortoise will have moved ahead some more, to point D. When Achilles gets to point D, the tortoise reaches point E. The distances between the two get smaller and smaller, but no matter what, the tortoise should always be ahead.

Awful, isn’t it?

Aziraphale makes a very bad tortoise, and it’s not like they never changed speeds or turned around or went off the racetrack, but Crowley’s point still stands.

Crowley’s text alert sounds, and Aziraphale stirs.

“Mornin’, angel,” Crowley says, and takes a moment to take in the sight of just-awake Aziraphale, hair mussed, eyes bleary, something crusty on his cheek. “Y’know, for someone who barely sleeps, you sure are a lazy sod. Now move, you’re cutting off m’ circulation.”

Aziraphale lets out a huff of laughter and obliges.

“What d’you wanna do today?”

“Well…” Aziraphale hums. “To complete your Genesis ritual, we just have to rest, yes?”

Crowley flushes. “You knew about that?”

“Well of course, darling. The plants? And the sunny-side up eggs? We both prefer scrambled.”

Crowley considers being mortified, but decides kissing Aziraphale is much nicer.

A little while later, Crowley asks, “So you just, what, want us to stay in bed, the-floor-is-lava the day away?” Because he doesn’t think he’d mind that too much.

“Don’t be silly, we _do _need to eat. Or at least, I'd like to.”

“And until then?” Crowley attempts to waggle his eyebrows.

Aziraphale gives a deep sigh. “You’re incorrigible. But yes, we can stay, as long as I can get a book first.”

“Ooh,” Crowley says, deadpan. “Kinky.”

“What does that- How do my books have tight curls in them? Now, dear, I really don’t see why that response is necess- what’s so funny?”

Crowley unburies his face from Aziraphale’s shoulder to gasp out, “Nevermind, angel,” before dissolving into hysterics again.

They last in bed until noon. Aziraphale reads to Crowley aloud (“I know you don’t do novels, but Winterson’s prose is practically poetry”) and Crowley lets Aziraphale know which bits he likes the most by tracing out the phrases on Aziraphale’s thigh. While Aziraphale gives his voice a break, Crowley remembers the text alert and messages Anathema back. Eventually, though, Aziraphale’s stomach starts rumbling too much to ignore, and they head to the kitchen.

Aziraphale makes tea and cocoa and Crowley tries to smooth down Aziraphale’s hair and makes them eggs, scrambled, and then they decide that really isn’t enough for a meal and head to the bakery to buy one of each item to go. Aziraphale, who has presumably forgiven Anathema for the prophecy-burning, asks Crowley far too loudly if he thinks they should set her up with the nice young lady helping them behind the till and Crowley grumbles about _tact_ and Aziraphale giggles.

Crowley tracks the distances between the two of them throughout the day, but with no real sense of urgency. 0 meters in bed (the empty spaces inside atoms can suck it). 13 meters, assuming Crowley can walk through floors and walls, when Aziraphale goes downstairs to retrieve _Written on the Body_. 0.5 m when Aziraphale holds the door open for him at the bakery. Less than 2000 m when Crowley heads back to Mayfair for an hour to check on his plants. 0 when he returns and Aziraphale kisses him on the cheek. 0.27 when they finish the rest of the pastries. 5 when Aziraphale waters Basil and Henry. 23 when Aziraphale finishes Winterson and decides to get _Lunch Poems_ next. About 1000 when they decide that they might as well make a dent in the number of paper cranes they have left to make and Crowley goes off to find a stationary store that sells origami paper. 0.1 when they’re back on the couch, folding furiously.

“Hey, psst. Aziraphale. Bet I can make 40 in the next hour. Race you?”

Here they are, going away and coming together again, something else Zeno would say is illogical. According to him, the distance between a moving object and its intended destination can never be breached. If Crowley wants to return to the bookshop from his flat, he first needs to get halfway to Soho. Before getting halfway, he has to go a quarter of the way. Before that, he has to travel one-eighth of the way, and before that, one-sixteenth, and so on. Infinite tasks ahead of him. And, Zeno concluded, it is impossible to do infinite tasks in finite time, so all motion must be an illusion.

Crowley’s pretty sure people have disproved the Dichotomy Paradox through calculus (something about how you can also cut time up into infinite pieces, so it all matches up?) by now, so Zeno can fuck right off.

He wonders how Zeno would feel knowing the base SI unit for distance is defined in a way that depends on time. One meter is, officially, the length of the path travelled by light in a vacuum in 1/299792458 of a second.

Plenty of the base SI units have definitions that include the other units. They’re a veritable tangle of dependencies and jargon and smeared pencil. Then, of course, there’s the infinite possible derived units, of which only 22 have names. Such a large universe, and humans are nowhere near finding and defining the words to measure all of it.

“You’re not very good at resting, are you, darling?”

Crowley’s been seeking precision. His own version of the Plan. The exact way Aziraphale thinks of him, the perfect words to take away his existential dread, the right way to hail in this new universe. Numbers and graphs. But it’s not possible to be completely precise. Measuring tapes all have _some_ small manufacturing errors, definitions change, and the distance between two opposite corners of a unit square can’t even be expressed correctly in decimal or fraction form. Crowley still needs that therapist and more trust in himself and some friends. He thinks of mush, of beats per minute and utils. None of these are any less precise than candelas or amperes or kilograms.

You can’t be a demon and have free will. Crowley wonders what that makes him.

“Doesn’t matter. The world’s been rebuilt, angel. We can do whatever we like.”

Objects become visible when they reflect light, and objects become distinct by reflecting different wavelengths of light in different places. With Aziraphale this close, the light that reflects off of him will reach Crowley’s eyes well within 1/299792458 of a second. If Crowley moves across the room, his own light will take an infinitesimally longer time for Aziraphale to perceive.

Crowley lets his eyes wander around the bookshop backroom, the papers and pens scattered everywhere, the bookshelves, the walls, Aziraphale, his own hands. He lets the light reflect off every cracked spine, every speck of dust, every dark and hidden place and then travel rational and irrational numbers of meters to meet him, and he looks.

On the seventh day, Crowley sees the life he is still building, and he sees that it is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about philosophy, but Zeno can meet me in the pit.
> 
> Jeanette Winterson and Frank O'Hara are probably both a little too modern for Aziraphale's taste, but he stocks a _few_ newer books.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
